Rory & Ita (36 page)

‘We flew to Dushanbe, in Tajikistan. We were given priority on boarding the plane, over American, British and German tourists, and, finally, the locals.
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The locals were laden with kettles, teapots and every contrivance, presumably for use in the tea houses. The cabin soon stank with the odour of musk and what we afterwards learnt was hashish, which the men were smoking. The inside of the plane was dire – tattered wallpaper on the
sides of the cabin. We shot up into the sky and Ita disappeared. I looked around and discovered that somebody had removed the bolts that fixed the seat to the floor and, on our descent, I had to grab Ita, because now the seat was sliding in the opposite direction.

‘Dushanbe was a nice city and we saw the usual sights, including Lenin’s bedroom. We weren’t encouraged to wander the town, because there was some local unrest as a consequence of the Russian war in Afghanistan, not too far away, and a lot of the local Tajiks had relatives across the border. One of the men on the tour told us that he’d been in the park the night before, and a demonstration started up; and police with dogs had made short work of the demonstration. We went for a picnic up in the mountains, the Hindu Kush. We were warned not to dally on the road, as there was a constant stream of lorries laden with soldiers on their way to Afghanistan, and we were told that the lorries would not swerve or stop if we got in the way. So, we didn’t dally on the road. We walked down from the pass and, on the way, we were greeted by a couple of Russian generals and their “wives,” all roaring drunk in a field off the road. I never saw so much gold braid in my life. They wanted us to join in the fun. We politely declined the invitation and carried on down to where our own picnic was being provided. I had finished my cure, after the curse of Tamerlaine, and I got lucky because a large number of the party were respectable teachers and didn’t drink alcohol. I had more than my fair share of the lovely Georgian wine and I started a singsong, to the mortification of some of our party but to the delight of a large group of Germans.

‘Then we flew to Leningrad, a very lovely city, and
saw Lenin’s bedroom and a circus. The circus had the usual bear, and a large Russian lady in mesh tights controlled the bear.
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Then home.’

‘My time for retirement came on the 8th of December, 1988, and I was glad to get out. I’d been very enthusiastic about the work and had enjoyed meeting all the people around the country. However, there were lots of new people coming in, as a consequence of the fusion of different agencies, including Anco, to form a new organisation, called FÁS. I began to feel that some of these people had a very hazy knowledge of what the job entailed, as I understood it. So, what’s new? They probably saw me as a dinosaur, and I was occupying an office, now in high demand. Subsequently, a new scheme of retraining for the unemployed, called Job Search, was introduced and, as a “very experienced” officer, I was asked to participate. I accepted the invitation, as I reckoned that my main task was complete and I knew I wouldn’t be given a serious assignment so close to retirement. I was now out of my office – out of sight, out of mind – and experienced the most stressful period of my working life. The scheme was to cater for long-term unemployed people. Unemployment figures were very high, and there was also a considerable number of people drawing the dole who were suspected of also working in the black economy. Many more were untrained for the new industrial processes that were gradually coming on stream towards the end of the 80s. Many of these
people were very pleased with the new opportunities but quite a number were displeased – they were being discommoded. Essentially, the participants would be required to attend for interview and would then be assigned to training courses deemed suitable for their needs. I was assigned to do the interviewing in Swords and Coolock, and it was not a pleasant experience. At the end of a day, all the positive feelings of helping people could be swamped by the sheer negativity of the smaller numbers of objectors. The stress arose from the sheer predictability of the objections raised by some of the people who were antagonistic to the scheme. They argued and blustered and produced the most amazing reasons for non-compliance and, of course, held me personally accountable for their plight. Others – most, in fact – were delighted with the opportunity. One particular character who was in the bad books with the Social Welfare Department was called to be interviewed, by me. He came to the office I was occupying and said that he wouldn’t be available for interview. I told him I’d no option but to set a date for the interview. That afternoon, as I was strolling down the main street in Swords during the lunch break, I met him face to face – High Noon. He threatened me in a very aggressive manner. I recommended a training course for him. The following Friday, when I was having my lunch in the local hotel with some of my colleagues, he came in, half-jarred, and he assailed me with a litany of bad names and descriptions, and he attempted to physically assault me. He didn’t succeed, and was ejected from the hotel by the staff and customers. The next week he declared to Social Welfare that he’d found a job, and he ceased drawing the dole.

‘The 8th of December rolled up, and I had completed forty-eight years working, as a printer, a teacher and an industrial-training advisor. I’d been particularly fortunate in my working life, and had moved seamlessly from one job to the next. I was never unemployed for a single day. I never made a fortune but I got my pension, which I’ve enjoyed, and I’ve no worries about the rise and fall of stocks and shares.’

‘My heart problems started earlier than they were officially recorded. I had a bad spell of not feeling well, and Ita sent for J.J. O’Leary, my doctor. He took a look at me, and said, “Put on your coat,” and he brought me up to Beaumont.
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I spent about a day and a half there, for assessment, but I didn’t show any of the classic symptoms of a heart condition. They told me I had this oesophagus ulcer; I can’t remember the exact name of it.
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So, I came away; and every time I got this pain across my chest, I was to take Gaviscon, a stomach tablet. I’d go for a walk and, every now and again, the pain would come and I’d take one of the tablets.

‘It went on for about two years. Until one famous night, after the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis. We always had a party, hosted by Michael Woods. This one was in a restaurant in Howth. We were upstairs, and we were enjoying ourselves and, suddenly, I saw spots, shooting stars, in front of my eyes, and then pain across my chest.
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And I began to perspire, at a terrible rate. In fact, I’d a good
suit on me and it was absolutely saturated.
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I heard my good friend Noel Leech: “Leave him alone and call a fuckin’ ambulance.”
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‘I was carted by stretcher, down the stairs, and into the ambulance.
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And I remember, as it turned up Kilbarrack Road, driving along, no siren on, I said, “Every other night, you fellows wake me up with your sirens. And here’s me coming up Kilbarrack Road, and not a sound.” So the driver said he’d soon fix that, and he let the sirens go.
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‘So we arrived in Beaumont, and I was taken to the intensive-care ward. I was put into a bed, and tubes were stuck in me, and various people prodded and tapped me and consulted dials.
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I passed out, and woke the next morning and looked up at the window, and there was a blue, blue sky. A nurse came in and said, “What are you smiling for?” I said, “I’m looking out at a blue, blue sky that I never expected to see again. And,” I said, “that makes me very happy.”

‘Innumerable tests were done on me for about four or five days. I’d had a heart attack; they agreed on that.
But not one of the standard tests suggested that I had a bad heart – no high blood pressure, no high cholesterol. So they said they’d send me home.
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I rang up Ita to tell her that I was coming home that day. Then I went down through the wards, to get a newspaper – to walk through the wards in Beaumont took considerable exercise – and I got the paper, came up, was sitting on the side of the bed reading it, when the sparks started again. So I pressed the button, and everybody came running.
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They decided to go a bit further, with probing tests, and discovered that I needed a bypass.

‘I remember going to Blackrock
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on a Sunday, a very pleasant day. And being put into a nice comfortable bed. And that night, a priest came along. He was a Franciscan, and he looked rather solemn. He said, “Do you want to go to confession?” And I said, “No. At this stage in my life, all the sins I’d like to commit, I’ve neither the money nor the inclination for. So, I don’t have anything troubling me at all.” And he said, “Would you not like to think of the sins of your past?” And I said, “No. One of the benefits of increasing age is that you can forget the things that you don’t want to remember. So, I can’t even remember a sin I ever committed.” So he said, “Would you like me to anoint you?” I said, “Yes.” So he anointed me.

‘The next morning, the surgeon, Maurice Neligan, came and took a look at me, and then another man came along and said, “I’m the anaesthetist,” and it suddenly struck me: it reminded me of the story of the
English hangman, Pierpoint, coming to the cell and looking at his client, his height and weight and all, to determine the length and strength of the rope. I said this to the anaesthetist, and he said, “You’re pretty close to it; that’s what we’re doing.” He was trying to work out how much anaesthetic I’d need. I was to have a triple-bypass heart operation. I was taken off then, someone gave me a jab, and I remember nothing else.
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‘I woke up feeling all clustered with wires, tubes all around me, people looking at me. And I was with the fairies. I hadn’t a clue where I was. One of the nurses said, “You’ve done very well.”
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They’d opened up my leg and taken a vein from it – “harvested,” they called it. This was for the purpose of replacing silted-up heart arteries. I still have the scar; it goes from just above my ankle, up to my thigh. They were rather proud of the job, the sewing-up, a gaping big hole in my chest but no stitches, all very neat. And I was still with the fairies.

‘I spent two or three days in bed, and then I was visited by this very large, formidable-looking lady, and she said, “Up! You’re going to walk.” I said, “I can’t walk.” “Yes, you can,” she said, and she just put her arm around me – I’m twelve stone, not a light-weight – but she hoisted me up on my feet and marched me up and down the corridor several times.
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‘Everybody who visits Blackrock Clinic says, “Look at the lovely menus.” As far as I was concerned, the food could have been dog dirt. I was no more interested. The food was beautifully done, and everybody came in with “oohs” and “aahs”. But I wasn’t interested.
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It took me quite a while; I only really ate again when I got home. I lost an awful lot of weight. I couldn’t sit, I lost so much weight; the hardness of the chair was killing me.

‘It struck me later that the anaesthetic had had a lingering effect on me, for some months. I had waves of fuzzy thoughts, and waves of black depression, and I just fought them off. I couldn’t concentrate enough to read. It was tough going, but if you make up your mind to fight, you’re not going to be overwhelmed by depression, or become a burden. I came through it alright, and I was fine. That was in 1992. I had a minor relapse when I was switched to aspirin, as an alternative to warfarin. It didn’t work; I began getting pains again. I had to spend several days in Beaumont, so that I could be balanced out. I now have a fine selection of tablets,
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about eleven, to be taken morning, noon and night. They appear to be doing the business. About five months after the operation, I saw an advert for a leather jacket. I liked the look of it, and decided to make a statement of survival. I bought the jacket. I still have it.

‘I don’t worry about death. It’s inevitable. The longer
you live, the more people you lived with are gone. But I don’t regard them as gone; they’re still around, somehow. I can still think of them and I don’t feel any pain or sense of loss.

‘I hope that I don’t become a burden. I know that I’m into old age, what some people would call old age, but I don’t think it’s old at all. I’m quite happy with it. I can’t jump over things or climb ladders any more, to clean gutters. I was through the trauma of the heart attack, and thought then that I was going, so I’m quite prepared to go when the time comes, but not too soon. I believe we cross over to another, very pleasant place. I don’t know what it is; I don’t speculate.

‘I’m now living in a totally different world. The availability of space, travel, movement, colour, and people’s outlook – it’s so totally different. We have much more in the way of material things, much more money and travel. It’s a very mobile society today, and a very pleasant one. And the country – every time I go out now, say, to Ennis
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– a dreary town has become a vibrant, colourful place. And all the towns of Ireland reflect this lively image. Young people and no dreariness, and good hotels and restaurants. And some idiots go on about how corrupt the country is. There’s been corruption since Adam got booted out of the Garden of Eden.

‘And Dublin has become a very cosmopolitan, colourful and lively place. The streets throb with the sound of multiple accents and languages, and there’s a very obvious presence of different races, and a noticeably large number of young people. I wish our young
people would get over the current phase of overdrinking, but then I seem to remember episodes from my own past years.’